All Waters Have the Color of Drowning
by Min Daae
Summary: No matter what, Meg always seems to come back. S6.


Demons were part cockroach, Dean was pretty sure, and Meg was the worst. Just when it seemed like she was gone for good she came right back. Raring for more.

And somehow she still managed to catch them unawares, and that ended like this: trussed up on a concrete floor with Sam a few feet away and similarly restrained but with his hands in front, still unconscious. Dean twisted against the ropes, boiling with frustration at himself for getting them both caught with his pants down and just plain rage with Meg.

"Wriggle all you like," Meg's voice said silkily from behind him. He tried to twist his head, but in his current _position _it wouldn't go far enough. "I can tie a good knot, Dean-o."

"What do you want now," Dean growled, eying Sam worriedly. Meg snickered.

"What I always have, Dean!" She exclaimed, with unholy glee. "You squirming on a meat hook and Sam in bloody chunks. But I'm just playing today. Nothing too permanent. I promise."

Sam stirred minutely and shifted, eyelids fluttering. Dean let out a guttural noise at once, trying to keep her attention on himself. "I'll kill you," he said. "Should have before, this time-"

"Oh look," Meg said, cutting him off. She stepped over him and leaned down to grin in Dean's face. Her breath smelled like peppermint and sulfur and was hot on his face. "Our little Sammy's waking up. You think he'll be happy to see me? He was _bad _last time, but word on the street says that's changed. Too bad, I would have liked to play with him like that."

Dean bared his teeth. "Guess what, bitch," he said, "Pretty sure we can still kick your ass."

Sam groaned and rolled over, glancing dazedly at his wrists. "Dean?" he said blurrily. Damn, he sounded out of it. No plan from that quarter, then-

Meg stood up. "My boys," she purred. "How long have we known each other? We've had some good times, haven't we."

Sam's eyes shifted from Dean to their company, and Dean saw him swallow even as he shifted slightly, testing his own knots. "Meg," he said roughly.

"I find it funny you still call me that. But sure," she said, giving them both a dazzling smile. "Close enough. Now, much as I love chatting, I'm a busy girl." She turned her head and smirked at Dean, swayed her hips, and Dean felt his heart start to involuntarily beat faster as her eyes went solid black. "Come on, Sammy," she cooed. "Let's have some fun. I think you'd like that."

She turned her back on Dean. Sam tried to move backwards, but with both hands and ankles bound the most he could do was snarl as Dean had done. "Don't touch me," Sam said, voice still blurry but rough-edged with anger now. Dean twisted his hands furiously and felt a small shift in the knots.

Meg laughed. "Cute, Sam," she said, and even as he lashed out with both feet, she grabbed his shirt and started dragging him toward a door like she wasn't a foot and a half shorter than his ginormous younger brother. Sam kept trying to struggle, but it was almost pathetic to watch, his head twisting wildly.

Dean lunged, or tried to, and just ended up flopping on his stomach, the rope refusing to give any more. "Don't you dare, I'll rip you apart, I'll," he threatened wildly. Meg just smirked at him. _Demon, _Dean thought. _Pain. Last time we saw Meg. The Wall. Shit shit shit. _

For just a moment, Sam's eyes landed in Dean's, and they were scared. Meg hauled him one foot inside the door and looked straight at Dean.

"I hope you're a good listener, Dean-o," she said with a manic grin, and closed the door.

~.~

_Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't-_

"You look nervous, Sammy," Meg said, crouching down beside him. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

Sam forced himself to grin, but it felt more like a rictus. "Nah. I'm good." He tried to twitch away as Meg reached out and shifted a strand of hair off his face.

"I suppose you would be. I'll have to work a little harder now, won't I? I hope you're still a screamer. I used to think you'd be a great screamer, and we don't want Dean to get worried, do we?" She reached up above him and pulled a chain down with a hook at the end, attached it almost lovingly to his bonds. "Mmm," she hummed, "You want to make this easy or hard?"

Sam could feel his heart beating too rapidly, thud-thud in his ribcage, beat beat beat. And a niggling feeling in the back of his mind –

He pushed it down. Shoved it down, mercilessly. "Not going to make anything easy for you," he managed, with a scrap of defiance, at least. Meg chuckled again.

"Not for me, honey," she said, "For you." She let go of the chain and stood up. He saw the other end hooked to a nail on the wall and tried to bring his feet under him, but with them tied-

She dragged down hard and his arms jerked up. It felt like they were going to pop out of the sockets, but the rest of his body followed like so much dead weight, and he finally managed to bring his useless, hobbled legs underneath to support some weight, but his shoulders were already starting to ache.

Meg shed her jacket and reached down, pulled a knife from her boot. "Okay," she said. "We'll take this slow. I wouldn't want to rush too much, even if I am on a timer and I've still got your brother to do." She waved the knife in a circle encompassing his whole body. "What do you think, Sam? Where should I start? A pretty eye? Or maybe a couple fingers…"

The itch was growing stronger. Sam could smell her, suddenly, sulfur and rotting sweetness. Sometimes it smelled like that in-

_No. No, stop, not now. _

Meg slithered close and rubbed her body against his, the knife tickling his Adam's apple. He felt a single drop of blood ooze down to pool in the hollow of his throat. Her other hand came up and ripped his shirt open in one sharp jerk.

"All right, Sam," she said, "Let's see how well you scream. Just relax and think of your brother…what will he think if you're too quiet?"

The knife trailed down from his throat and turned sideways. She sliced in, and then down. The pain was sharp but he locked his jaw, refusing to cry out or make any sound at all. Not for her. This was nothing. Not compared to-

_Stop it. Don't scratch. Don't fucking scratch. _

Then her forefinger dug into the wound, and her thumb was pinching the outside, and she just smiled at him and pulled, one sharp jerk. Like peeling an orange. Or pulling off a band-aid.

The pain was white and hot and he yelled once before managing to cut it off, swallowing hard and rapidly. He couldn't help but look and she was holding a strip of flesh _peeled out of his shoulder-_

The itching was suddenly a roar, and he could feel something closing in, _no, god, no, not-_

He screamed, just once, in futile helplessness because he couldn't stop it. And then _Lucifer's hands were slick with blood to the elbow. He laid one on raw, flayed flesh. "See," he said, gently. "You see. One piece. All I needed was to try again." He made a small, satisfied noise. _

_Sam whimpered. Everything was agony. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, without it hurting. He distantly heard Lucifer sigh. "Would you like to die, Sam?"_

"_Please," he pleaded, out of skinless lips. "P-please."_

_Lucifer's hand squeezed the raw muscle of his arm in a new center of blazing pain. "I'm sorry," he said, "I can't allow that. I don't think you understand, yet."_

His eyes opened. Sam didn't understand at first, nothing but the ache in his arms becoming a slow and constant burn and the throbbing raw pain in his shoulder and spreading out. And the smiling face watching him with new interest.

He coughed, spat. His mouth tasted like vomit, and glancing down, he could see why. His own breathing felt ragged, and his heart pounded frantically.

"Well," said the smile (Meg, he managed) with smug delight. "Isn't that fascinating. Isn't that just…I liked that, Sammy." Her smile widened, which seemed impossible. "I liked that _quite _a lot."

She lifted the knife, brought the edge to the raw and bleeding flesh she'd already skinned, and leaned in close. Her voice was low and husky.

"Let's do it again."

~.~

All's quiet in the next room. Quiet enough Dean could hear his own heartbeat. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

_(He didn't make much of a sound at all when he was seizing.)_

Meg said no permanent damage. Who knows what that means, though? Or how much she's lying? Dean kept working at the ropes, straining them wider little by little around his wrists. His shoulders were starting to hurt a little, but not too-

Sam screamed. Just once, high and frantic, and it cut off all too quickly. Dean's protective instincts kicked into overdrive, and before he was thinking he was moving, thrashing with a frantic yell of "Sam? Sammy!"

No response. Of course there's no goddamn response. Sam could be dead or _(thrashing trapped in memories of Hell) _worse.

Swearing at the top of his lungs, Dean struggled harder and across the floor, near where Sam was tied, abruptly spied a recognizable switchblade.

Sam's. He'd gotten it out somehow, and unfolded, but apparently that was as far as it went. And Meg hadn't seen.

Dean started worming across the floor, glancing over toward the door. It had gone quiet again. Too quiet. _(Maybe he just passed out. Quit panicking.)_

Yeah, fat chance of that. And like that would be any better.

Fumbling, he managed to twist the switchblade between his hands and set it against the ropes, trying to press frantically through the twined strands.

"Hold on, Sammy," he said, under his breath, and kept working. Watching the door. And listening.

Almost fucking _hoping _for another scream.

~.~

He imagined he could feel the crack whispering to him, widening, sucking him back down. (It was always down, such a long way down through fire and ice and-)

"Do you see his face?" Meg murmured, playing idly with the piece of slippery skin and flesh between her fingers. Sam's body quivered involuntarily, but it was his head that was pounding like it was going to crack open. There was almost longing in the demon's voice.

Sam spit out blood. The last…he bit through his lip. He's worried his tongue will be next. He is almost sure his thrashing dislocated one shoulder. It feels _wrong. _He feels _wrong. _This feels unreal. This warehouse is false and with-

_No. Stop. Dean's just outside. Dean will-_

Meg drew a bloody finger in a line down his chest. The right side was mostly raw flesh, now. Strip by strip, she was peeling skin and the wall away together. "Tell me, Sam," she said, and dug her nails into raw muscle.

He panted fearfully, but it was not enough. Sam managed a manic smile. "You're not him," he said, "The more I – remember the less it – matters."

Meg's eyes flashed black, and she lifted the knife and stabbed it through his shoulder. The world wavered and threatened to implode.

Sam heard himself start to laugh. There was blood coursing down his body in thicker streams now, and that couldn't be good, but he understood now. She was nothing. A pale imitation. Less.

She knew nothing of the art of pain.

There was fire burning along his nerves and ice freezing at his core. Lucifer ran fingers through his hair and said, "I'm sorry it has to be this way," full of sympathy and compassion and love.

The door slammed open, but Sam forgot what he was waiting for. Whoever it was, though, they seemed to blaze with light.

"_Hush," said Lucifer, hands sifting through Sam's entrails. "Close your eyes. Rest a while."_

"_Sam? Sam! _Fuck, _Sam!"_

_~.~  
_

Sam came back two hours later, blinking once, eyes clearing. Dean slumped and went limp.

_Never again. Never fucking again. _He would never get that picture out of his head, Sam dangling limply by his arms, one shoulder discolored and swollen, one side of his chest bright red blood and raw flesh, and his eyes. His eyes wide open and staring at nothing as his body twitched and spasmed and went deathly still.

"Dean?" Sam said, blinking and lifting his good arm to rub at his eyes. At least he'd had plenty of time to bandage and tape and staunch bleeding. At least. _Oh god. _"What…"

Trying to think, trying to figure out how he got here and what had happened and why he hurt. "Don't," Dean said. "Don't think about it. Just don't. Painkillers?"

Sam frowned. "Dean?" he said, and Dean shook his head.

"No," he said firmly, and then added, "It's safe now."

It wasn't. Meg was still out there, and who knew how many other things, what else might be floating around waiting to trigger a crack, or a collapse. It wasn't safe; for Sam it might be nothing was safe and they were both screwed.

But with his wide eyes and out of it look, Sam looked younger than he should have, and so Dean gave him the answer he would have given back when things were simple and it was just them and their dad and the rest of the world, and uglies to kill.

Sam's brow furrowed, and Dean gave him a glass of water and offered Sam the painkillers again. "It's safe now," he repeated, and pretended it was true.


End file.
